The Madras Mail

I’m in a very … ‘apt’ stage to write. (Excusr the spelling errors)

One term at XL is done. I’ve been through shit, I’ve wallowed in the shit, and I’ve learnt that shit is bound to happen irrespecitive of how careful you are. These last few months have been some of the best I’ve had.

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The comma and the dot next to it are almost merged into one button now.

I shouldn’t be writing now.

Chennai beckons.

XL meri jaan!

The four of us, Sundeep, George, SJ and me, went to Pondicherry.

We drank, a lot.

I’ve uploaded some pictures on orkut and on facebook, the links are in the ‘About’ section.

The names in this post have been changed to protect the identity of the person/s involved.

The story revolves around one person, let’s call him Mr.V. Mr.V apparently has a huge problem. He learnt to drink with one Mr.G, who gulps his drinks neat rather than sip like say, Mr.S.

That aside, Mr.V and Mr.G were invited to a party by Mr.S at 10 Downing Street. (No, Mr.S does not know the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, that used to be a classy watering hole, until Mr.V got done with it, after which it ceased to be)

The party had begun by the time Mr.V and Mr.G got there, and I must describe the situation here. It was a small room, low-ceilinged, and was filled with about 20 people. Mr.V had his priorities right and headed straight for the alcohol. One more thing, the jackass that Mr.V is, he came to the party on an empty stomach, and was drinking whisky neat, and since Mr.G also was doing the same thing, he thought he was fine. But what Mr.V did not realize was, is that Mr.G had his head made of f***ing titanium that simply took obscenely large quantities of alcohol and still allowed him to stay sane. But this was not the case with Mr.V. On a normal day, after eating some food, Mr.V could have taken about 5 drinks, gotten high, and returned to normalcy in about half an hour. But no, Mr.V had something close to 7 drinks, that transalates to half a liter of whisky, neat, in a span of one hour, in a low-ceilinged room, with blasting music and complete lack of oxygen.

All was fine till the 7th drink. Now the story proceeds with the recollections of Mr.S and Mr.G as Mr.V was temporarily out of action.

Mr.V passed out, on a table, where two girls, the names are irrelevant, had their drinks. After that Mr.V threw up. Then he had to carried to the car by 6 people, he is pretty heavy apparently, and deposited rather discourteously into the car. Then Mr.S got himself and everyone else banned from the pub due to the antics of Mr.V. Mr.G dragged Mr.V to his house and took the services of one Mr.K to kick Mr.V’s ass. After about two hours, Mr.V was tucked up in bed, smelling like a pig, and wearing clothes he doesn’t remember changing into.

By the time Mr.V woke up the next day, everyone who lived above the Equator, including one Mr.Ko and Mr.Ar, who live in the United States of America, knew in intricate detail on what happened that night, except of course, Mr.V.

And now, Mr.SJ is making fun of Mr.V, this is the last nail in the coffin.

F*** you Gordon Brown !!!!